


breathe again beneath the flames

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Roger's execution, Pre-Canon, wound cleaning as affection <3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: Mihawk breathes in the sharp twist of Shanks' arms, the cocky, lethal snap of his body as he brings the sword from overhead to his front, one arm steadying the other with a casual grip on the inside of his elbow.(Set in Loguetown, a couple days after Roger's execution.)
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Dracule Mihawk
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	breathe again beneath the flames

**Author's Note:**

> Assumes an existing rivalry/relationship between Shanks & Mihawk pre-execution, not sure how canonically supported that is but thought I'd mention that bit of context.

Mihawk breathes in the sharp twist of Shanks' arms, the cocky, lethal snap of his body as he brings the sword from overhead to his front, one arm steadying the other with a casual grip on the inside of his elbow. Gulps in the shockwave, powerful enough to make him shift his feet, heel grinding deep in the dirt, not like air, but water, blood. Something rich and dark and  _ alive _ , heavy in his lungs and filling in his gut, soaking into his skin as it swallows him until he feels saturated with it, and yet can't help but gasp for more. He'd like Shanks to bury him in the powerful thrill, every inch of flesh alert and present and painfully, painfully real, grab him by the hair (a sharp yank, right at his hairline, lidded eyes never leaving his and grin positively  _ violent _ ) and dunk his head in it until he gives a few happy little shudders, full-body twitches, and goes limp.

And then: Pulls him up. Starts it all over again.

He's quietly elated when Shanks sets his shoulder back, determined, as Mihawk gives a returning swing, teasing, whipping air and dirt past him, scuffing the leather of his shoes. Time is lost, crinkling around them into vacuum, they exist paces apart until they don't, knees bent with the spring of an implied motion that neither could claim truly happened. 

The ring of their blades, the parting of heavens above absolve themselves in the parting of lips, mirrored grins and a shared look. Everything is sharp, the delicate curl of Shanks' eyelashes against his cheek, the sparse scattering of auburn hair along his jawline and over his upper lip, the way his shirt hangs loose and dark, dropped to expose his heaving chest. The sleepless crease settling deep beneath his eye. Heat, electricity prickles along Mihawk's skin, haki crawling along  _ Yoru _ in a mirror of the raise of fine hair along tegument. He takes a sharp intake of breath.

Shanks is laughing when he yanks Mihawk to his side with a trembling hand, pulls him forward with a strength he didn't realize he still had until the sight of Mihawk's blown-out gaze, split lip streaking blood all the way up over high cheekbones. He kisses him, the ground hard beneath him and Mihawk's mouth so soft, so yielding as Mihawk rolls over him. 

Everything is tender, smarting with bruises and slick with blood, but Shanks' heart is light with the other swordsman's pulse on his tongue, his hands pinning his wrists limply and legs flopped over him in exhaustion rather than a true show of dominance. Chest to chest through fabric drenched in blood and sweat, he aches for skin, squirming up against Mihawk’s lax grip to feel the way those languid fingers wrap against his thudding pulse. They stroke the skin there, slow and delicate and  _ reverent _ , curling to let Shanks feel the drag of nails cut immaculately to the quick against the curve of his pisiform. Mihawk tastes like blood, and it sets his head spinning. 

* * *

Loguetown is aching, sore as the two of them with the pounding of boots against her quaint stretches of boardwalk; any dock is made quaint in the face of the dreams, the treasure, the infamy of the freest man in the world, even with the execution itself a couple weeks behind the port town. It sags with mourning, too, somewhere running under the thrum of excitement following the  _ thud-thud-thud. _ It’s this sag that’s tracing its way up Shanks’ lean frame as he trundles into a bar, smiling wide against Mihawk’s neck, mouthing  _ thank you _ s and pressing wet, near-apologetic kisses to the gentle jut of veins tracing from under his ear and down his throat. 

“Let’s drink,” he cheers, the raise of his arm in happy surrender enough motion to bring Mihawk from his begrudging trance, still basking in the endorphins of the skirmish, lactic acid burning steady in every appendage. He casts an impasse glance around the dimly lit interior, deems it seedy enough to let their unbandaged wounds stain freely. 

(Mihawk is untrained in this particular art, of mourning and open hurt, all his wounds neatly cauterized to lay brittle and cold, but he’s always been a prodigy of sorts, particularly with the way his rival presents himself as a reason to learn--just like he always is, Hawkeye reasons.)

They press against each other when Shanks fumbles against the counter, arm splayed over hardwood to cradle a tankard that Mihawk takes tentative sips from before urging against Shanks’ lips, and then again when they tumble into a room down the hall of a rickety inn. 

Shanks trips into the bed, blubbering and heaving where he presses his nose down into cheap sheets, bile sitting noxious behind his teeth like a promise. Mihawk’s hands are still molded around the wooden handle, the slosh of alcohol as he sets it on the nightstand flipping Shanks’ wavering stomach. He reaches for it lamely, despite this. 

His hand finds Shanks’ chin, tips him up so their eyes can meet. “Wait here,” quiet, face slack and regal.  _ I’ll be back _ , unspoken intention curbing the fear, the strange vulnerability hollowing Shanks’ insides _. _ Shanks smiles, grateful and dopey and sweet, pawing up for his kogatana in an attempt to haul the older into a kiss; one he resists, drawing away from with the barest edge of a smile.

Shanks lets himself fall to the bed with an exhausted sigh, a shiver wracking his body and leaving him fisting the sheets. He uses it as a vantage, head dragging as he hauls himself forward to rest against the thin pillows, sprawled prone. His foot hangs lamely off the side of the bed. He breathes, just for a minute, tight and fluttery up somewhere high in his throat, pressed right against the sheets, just barely scented with mildew. Another breath, slow and measured. Fights back the urge to sob again before doing it anyway. He misses his captain. Misses Mihawk. Wants that goddamn drink. 

He’s still aching, all the way down to his fingertips, when Mihawk slips back in, a dark shadow hissing from the liminal space of the doorway sporting a bottle and a roll of bandages.

Clarity returns in half-steps. He can't decipher what Mihawk's fingers say as they worry his buttons, peel the dirtied fabric off his shoulders with time taken to settle lovingly in every dimple and over every freckle.  _ I'm here _ , he makes out, as they map the planes of his back,  _ You are too,  _ resting palms flat over the sharp jut of his shoulder blades before withdrawing. The sting of alcohol on his skin, stronger than whatever's sitting in the tankard on the nightstand, leaving trails of wintry chill across his back and hips, settling like liquid fire in a particularly deep gash along his arm and prickling the scrapes on his legs.  _ I’ll take care of you _ , he lifts his legs, maneuvers him with a firm hand while Shanks lays ragdoll-limp,  _ whether you need me or not. _ Or maybe that part comes when Mihawk rolls him back onto his stomach with a receptive hiccup, seats himself gingerly on Shanks’ thighs and slots the brunts of his palms in the sore muscles of the other swordsman’s back.  _ Thank you for your pain. _

Maybe Mihawk was saying none of that, Shanks thinks with a grin, maybe it was all just  _ I love you. _ He can't help the dam of adoration that bursts in his chest, pleased and purring. 

He slides forward on his stomach with a quiet moan of satisfaction, reaches blindly behind him to take a fistful of the front of Mihawk's pants where he's comfortably half-mast--Shanks, smug grin and juvenile facial hair, is well versed in a pirate's thank you--before he's halted by a bruising grip circling his wrist. 

"Not now." Mihawk says, hand relaxing to stroke slowly up his forearm as it withdraws, each delicate brush of fingers unspoken apology. "You've drank too much."  _ Too tender right now. I don't want to hurt you.  _ And, oh, most definitely  _ I love you. _

"Not very nice," he grumbles into the pillow, arches his back so his hips lift, thighs still pinned to the bed with Mihawk's weight, "to get a guy hard and not want to deal with it." Mihawk laughs, noise spilling smooth and liquid into Shanks' pounding head, and that's enough, Shanks grinning into the fabric.

"Remind me in the morning, love," Hawkeye feigns a yawn on the latter half of the sentence as he slides off Shanks' thighs, the redhead whipping around just in time to see the flush that settles high on Mihawk's cheeks. The older isn’t really the type for regrets--for biting back pet names like a schoolgirl, Shanks thinks with an absent smile--neither of them are, but it strikes the iron sitting deep in Shanks’ belly, to see Mihawk cautious and sweet, a shared vulnerability. 

"Wipe the grin off your face before I make that no permanent." He snaps, but Shanks reaches up again, this time finding purchase in Mihawk's midsection to pull him back down to the bed as he tries. He manages to get as far as pulling the older to his chest, pressing a wet kiss to the sweat-greased crown of his head--ah, yeah, that’s why he’s leaving, Shanks knows Mihawk’s propensity for cleanliness by now--before he pulls up and away. As he goes, he takes Shanks’ slack hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles, their breathing syncing as he lays his lips flat over the skin.

“Thank you.” and then, “I love you,” hums Shanks, voice clear and low, long-sharpened from his previous ragged crying fit. He’s satisfied with the non-reply of a flush that pinkens the other swordsman’s ears when he jerks away from his hand, the barest quirk of an eyebrow, the hint of surprise in his gaze as he steps toward the in-suite washroom.

Exhaustion settles into his bones quickly with the other’s departure. For the first night since the fall of the blades, his sleep is dreamless and deep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mmm, I want to write another piece where Shanks is a little more Angry and Desperate post-execution because I think it'd be fun to feed a little bit into those Shanks But Fucked Up theories, but sloppy and vulnerable and all over the place is alright for me, too. 
> 
> My vision for this piece changed a lot over its course so like. it's not very cohesive tonally/pacing wise, sorry. Lots of very lukewarm feelings for this one. I think it'd be better to rewrite than do heavy revision for, though. 
> 
> Thank you for reading regardless! Please leave a comment or something if you'd like.


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